The Five Stages of Grief
by She-Has-Holmes-Eyes
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes fell, much of London mourned. The riff raff. The rabble. The great unwashed. Only a select few are invited to this most prestigious of events- the last few to mourn once the rest of London has turned back to other things and bigger stories. Essentially, they are the personifications of Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief.


_You are cordially invited,_

_To a most exclusive event._

_The event shall start with a Fall,_

_And whether or not you leave? _

_Is solely at your discretion._

_You, dear friend, are invited _

_to Grief._

The Guest List.

**Denial.**

Well, what a great fuss over nothing.

Oh well, now, she shouldn't say that. It was something, quite a feat in fact. Her bold, wilful boy, off and up to mischief again. The clever thing, tricking all of those people- that pretty little friend of his who worked in the morgue, and the beautiful one with the eyes from Scotland Yard, all of them so very intelligent, but not intelligent enough for her boy. Imagine, them all thinking such horrid, morbid things! As though he would do that. As though he would ever leave them. She'd been tempted to have words with the lot, but that could wait until Sherlock came back and this whole mess was over.

How he vexed her sometimes, with those naughty, maverick ways of his, but he could twist her well and truly around his little baby finger and pop it in his pocket for later with one of those sly, cheeky grins or a toss of his beautiful curls. The brat, she thought fondly as she pottered around her familiar, warm kitchen. Now where had she hidden the teabags? Had to keep them up high, away from prying hands, or he'd be off with them, and every child had to learn not to touch things that weren't his.

Trouble was, she tended to forget that this particular child happened to clear six feet, and attempting to place them out of his reach was quite ambitious of her.

As was, she settled for a nice, nondescript corner of her bookshelf, where they were tucked away behind a heavy, rather battered photo album. Lovely things, photo albums- there was always something you'd forgotten, some precious day or face or anecdote. She didn't have nearly enough, and probably never would, if Sherlock had his way; sulky thing he was, never could sit still long enough for her to get a good shot of him. And wouldn't he just look lovely if he'd wear his nice smart suit and brush his hair for once so she could sit him down in the living room and capture forever one of his fleeting, sparsely rationed smiles. He was so beautiful, all pretty curls and bright eyes and lovely heart shaped lips.

She sighs as she fishes out one of the fragrant grey pouches from the battered leather spine. When would he be home? If she didn't know better, she'd be worried sick. It had been days now, six in fact- not that she was counting, of course, and why would she? His silly little prank would be over soon, probably today, and he'd swan through that door in his fancy coat and expect tea and bickies. Well, she thought firmly, there'd be no bickies for him until he said sorry to them all. The poor doctor was beside himself up there, not that anyone had seen him in nearly a week. He'd be so relieved to have his friend back, and they could shake hands and make up and go back out to play as soon as they'd finished their tea. And she would wait for them here, where she belonged, as well she should. Her days of running around with London's finest were long past, and someone needed to stay home and keep the kettle on. That was just as she would do.

So she gets out the flour and starts weighing it out, and wonders if there are any chocolate chips left in the pantry. She misses him, and maybe if she could be a little more comforting, love him even more (but how could she when her heart felt fit to burst with adoring him?), he would see that he couldn't ever ever ever do this for real, couldn't leave her, not this way, because she hadn't even gotten to say goodbye, to pull him down and hug him to her so tight that he'd never be able to leave, to tell him that she loved him this much...

Oh Martha. She gives herself a shake. Why get yourself into such a state? He'll walk through this door any minute, and you wanted to have cookies to give him when he does. Best get to work.

And even hours later, when her wrists are sore from kneading, the kitchen piled high with sweet, gooey goods, she never stops glancing over at the door, waiting for her boy, her precious boy, to come bounding through to ask if he could have a biscuit.

He never does.

**Martha Hudson, RSVP:**

_**Yes I will be attending.**_

**Anger.**

"Motherfucking, shitbuggering, Hitler shagging CUNT!", he screams. The room's cold, sterile walls fling the curses back in his face, so he yells them again, and again, trying to drive the words right through the door.

"You fucking bastard! You stupid, selfish monumental prick of a bollocks of a motherfucking wanker, I'd fucking STAB YOU MYSELF IF YOU WERE HERE RIGHT NOW! BUT YOU AREN'T ARE YOU? YOU COULDN'T BE FUCKING BOTHERED!"

Spit flecks his mouth as he bellows and roars and screams abuse, and blood his hands when that stops being enough, when he needs to feel something crumble and give under his fists and boots. He kicks at the hateful, blank walls of his empty flat, for once grateful for his solitude, that there's no wife lingering in the background- if he was a better man, he might crave the comfort, but he's weak and scared and so, so angry that he's only grateful that such an easy target is far away from his rage.

It's like bubbling acid, deep in his stomach and high in his chest, poisoning him from the inside. He can feel it burning, carving away his insides until he's hollow and empty. He relishes the pain, feeds it the blood dripping from the soft scarlet pulp of his fists and the soft silver strands he yanks from his scalp. He can't even feel the pain of the flesh wounds over the agony singing inside of him.

So he does it again, pulling and scraping and twisting until his body weeps scarlet rage and violet blooms across his skin, waiting to feel anything, anything, over this absolute torture.

Casting wildly about himself, he realises he's migrated his way into the bathroom, and that powdered mirror dusts the ground by his feet and sparkles against his tanned skin where long shards are embedded. Fascinated, he yanks one of the curved pieces of glass from his fist. Clenching it in his hand, all he sees is Sherlock's broken, smashed body as the splinter glides along his forearm, softly separating the skin underneath it in such a gentle way that it seems apologetic for the brilliant streak of scarlet that trails behind it.

Greg hisses, feels the rage and pain starting to escape from his flushed, scalding body through the flowing gash in his arm. It's like he's opening doorways, letting the fury wash and ebb away, cleansing himself of the churning tide of lava that splashes in his twisting tummy.

So he does it again, plunging and scraping and dragging, forcing himself to expel the anger, feeling a sense of peace wash over him as the smooth tan flesh becomes lost under angry, criss crossing paths that intersect and play tag under the dripping pool of vermilion blood.

He only stops when he realises that it's not working anymore, and that if he doesn't stop he's going to bleed to death. He isn't quite sure if that would bother him, really, but base survival instincts are hard to shake. Hands trembling in anger, he nearly rips the towel as he wraps it around his wrist, not bothering to be gentle as he applies pressure. Gnashing his teeth, he stamps around his apartment like a caged animal.

How dare he? How fucking dare he, ruin his name and sever ties with his friends and just run off? How dare he, end his life like that, smashed to pieces on the path, his supposedly brilliant brain just splattered across the grey concrete, cloaked in a pool of blood...

"It's not meant to be like this! You're the one who's meant for this, the one who's supposed to have to go through this!", he hollers, feeling the words tear at his throat. "You're the one who was supposed to have to say goodbye to me! Especially since it's clear you wouldn't give a FLYING FUCK anyway!"

Fathers die.

Sons follow.

That's how it's supposed to be.

Lestrade snarls as he flings a vase against the wall, watching it shatter and crumble.

**Gregory Lestrade, RSVP:**

_**Yes, I will be attending.**_

**Bargaining**:

It has never yet been said that Mycroft Holmes does not wield considerable resources.

No, he is not nearly so foolish as to think he could reason with death. That would suggest Death to be a personified entity, and rest assured that if such a soul existed, Mycroft Holmes would know about it.

That is not to say, however, that there is not some guiding hand in the shaping of this motley race, that some external power isn't helping move things along. He's had this debate with himself and his brother so many times over that the question of his faith is quite succinctly answered. No, it is certainly not to say that there is no God.

And in his hour of need, that is exactly to whom Mycroft Holmes turns. In a gesture that would have the Diogenes Club inhaling their teacups, he crosses himself and clasps his hands, in not-quite-unconscious imitation of a brilliant man he once knew.

"Well, Higher Power, or whatever form of address you most prefer. I do beg your understanding of any breach of etiquette I may make during our negotiations; I find myself sadly lacking in knowledge of proper procedure in these situations. Ignorance is, of course, no excuse."

"I have called this meeting with a certain person in mind, specifically my younger brother, Sher- Sherlo-ahem. I believe you must know his name. Well, I am something of a concerned party in regards to his welfare, and while I am sure your accommodation for whatever it is that comes after this life is more than adequate, I find it hard to believe that I cannot equal or better whatever it is you may be able to supply.

"And so my offer is this; all of my personal wealth I will donate to charity, all of my earthly possessions, should you see fit to return him to my care. I highly doubt you can look after him better than I could. I will relinquish my position and all of the perks that entails. I will make peace with any enemies I may have, compensate anyone I may have harmed during my life. I will give spare change to orphans, and smile at old ladies, or whatever it is you want. Simply name your price, and it is done."

And Mycroft Holmes waits. He negotiates, he bargains, and eventually he gets down on his needs and begs. He pleads and nags and threatens, anything, anything at all, to just have his baby brother back.

Worn out, he reclines in his well padded armchair and waits for the reply.

**Mycroft Holmes, RSVP:**

_**Yes, I will be attending.**_

**Depression**

Oh, but it's quiet.

He wants to want noise, but he doesn't. He wants to want warmth, but he doesn't. He can't put a name to what he wants, or rather he can, but that name is tipped with razor blades and soaked with acid, and he can't afford to be exposed to it just yet, not while he's still this weak.

Weak.

The soldier that lives inside of him wants to rebel at the thought, but the raw, aching edge of the wounds around his heart seep lethargy onto his tattered, beaten frame until he lies down and sleeps.

John misses sleep. He misses missing sleep.

He isn't sure how long he's been sitting here. A minute, but how long that minute's lasted is anyone's guess. Maybe the whole world has ended, and it's just him, sitting in his armchair. He should be horrified at the idea, but he's not. He doesn't much care what happens to the world anymore; the one thing that made it worth inhabiting has...withdrawn.

Oh, the ache.

My heart hurts, his mind echoes numbly. It grows each day, expanding and pulsing and reaching until it fills his entire body with that deadening, stomach churning ache.

If he had to explain it...

If he could be roused to words...

Roused to care...

A knife. Plunged into his guts and swirled around. That's what it feels like.

His eyes almost roll back in his head with the pain.

He's standing now. He doesn't remember doing that. He tries to tell his feet to stop, but they can't hear him through the dull haze in his brain. He knows where he's going.

The door's still open.

He stares at the bed, rumpled and unmade. Laughter dances around the room, and he sees himself, clear as day, lying back against the pillows and smiling softly at the crystal eyes staring down at him.

_"You do know how much I love you, don't you?"_

_"Really John, spare me your trite sentiment. I don't need empty reassurances, you provide me with ample proof of your affection daily. It's ridiculous, this human need to constantly hear confirmation of their partner's love. Simply observe, and you wouldn't need-"_

_John decided to put a cap on what looked to be turning into quite the soliloquy by crushing his lips to the ranting man's, who blinked as though unsure how to respond._

_"A lot", John breathes, "Quite a lot."_

_And when Sherlock kisses him back, it's sweet, so very sweet and gentle, as John's hands tangle in Sherlock's soft inky curls and clutches him to him, cradling him gently to his chest. I love you, I love you, I love you, he mouths against those soft pink lips. With all my heart._

_Sherlock smiles, his almond eyes soft enough to make John's breath catch in his throat as he whispers his reply._

_"I love you too."_

His eyes pulse and burn as more tears bleed from them, but he can't quite think of a good reason to stop himself as his knees fold and come to rest on the soft, familiar sheets. He can feel himself falling, and doesn't try to stop. He gropes blindly for a pillow, and gasps in shock when he realises which one it is.

Formaldehyde and wool, rain and lightening and him; musky and spicy and clean, but surprisingly sweet and soft. It sends a solid punch to his gut, and the pain is multiplying to levels he can't handle. Too much, too much hurt and sorrow and crushing, crushing grief, but he can't make himself let go.

The lump in his throat swells, and he can hear himself make that keening sound again. He rocks back and forward, clutching the pillow to him.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_..." he mumbles, in a whisper that builds up to a shriek, that dies off to a broken, racking sob.

And there, alone in his room, in his flat, John Watson cries.

Wails and whimpers and sobs fill the room as he weeps, and there's no shame in crying when the world has ended, because who's there to see?

_I love you. So, so much. _

"Come back."

The first words he's spoken since forever began.

"Come back to me. Please. I need you, I need you here, please, don't be gone, don't be dead, just one more miracle love, come on please-"

But forever marches on, heedless of pain, of suffering, of grief and despair. The clock keeps ticking, pulling John further and further from the days where he smiled and laughed and ran across the London skyline clutching the hand of a mad genius with stars in his eyes and the moon in his hair and the huge, warm heart he hid so well beating in his chest.

Time marches forward.

And John Watson weeps.

**John Watson, RSVP:**

_**Yes, I will be attending.**_

**Acceptance**

But what's this? It seems we lack a guest. None appear willing to take up the mantle. It seems we are missing a crucial component necessary to complete our chain.

Well, no matter; the best parties always are the ones you don't want to end, after all, and it seems no one here tonight has much interest in escaping.

So we shall dance on, us guests of this eternal soiree, until our dying days; what better place to spend our lives, after all, when the alternative is to return to a world that lost it's sun, that orbits nothing. When the center of your life drops away, is really there any point in living?

**The End.**


End file.
